“A very sensible day yesterday. Saw no one.”
—Virginia Woolf, Jan. 31, 1939
The end of the world
An extinction distinction.
Checking in with death
I found this in an old notebook, copied from this article, which later became a book. I was reminded of it yesterday when I saw a twitter thread by a pediatrician who works with terminal patients in palliative care. He asked the dying kids for the opposite of regrets: “what they had enjoyed in life, and what gave it meaning.” His summary:
Be kind. Read more books. Spend time with your family. Crack jokes. Go to the beach. Hug your dog. Tell that special person you love them.
These are the things these kids wished they could’ve done more. The rest is details.
Oh… and eat ice-cream.
When I was re-reading Victor Frankl’s Man’s Search For Meaning last month, I was struck by his emphasis on imagination: how prisoners hold on by conjuring images of their loved ones, and how a patient can more easily sort out her decisions by pretending she’s lying on her death bed, looking back at her life: “Viewing her life as if from her deathbed, she had suddenly been able to see a meaning in it, a meaning which even included all her sufferings.”
The great poets and philosophers all know that death is what gives life meaning. (Montaigne: “To philosophize is to learn how to die.”) To check in with death is to check in with life. (This is why I like to read obituaries—they are near-death experiences for cowards.) As Ghost Dog reads aloud from Yamamoto Tsunetomo’s Hagakure: The Book of The Samurai:
Meditation on inevitable death should be performed daily. Every day when one’s body and mind are at peace, one should meditate upon being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and swords, being carried away by surging waves, being thrown into the midst of a great fire, being struck by lightning, being shaken to death by a great earthquake, falling from thousand-foot cliffs, dying of disease or committing seppuku at the death of one’s master. And every day without fail one should consider himself as dead.
Meditation upon death need not be serious. A favorite little book of mine is Japanese Death Poems, a collection of jisei, or death poems, written by Zen monks and haiku poets. It’s funny how many are light-hearted, like Moriya Sen’an’s, from 1838:
Bury me when I die
beneath a wine barrel
in a tavern.
With luck
the cask will leak.
There are modern English versions of jisei, like Clive James’ “Japanese Maple,” from Sentenced to Life, or, more recently, Helen Dunmore’s “My life’s stem was cut,” a poem from Inside The Wave:
I know I am dying
But why not keep flowering
As long as I can
From my cut stem?
The weird thing about being in what is, statistically, the middle of your life is that you have to simultaneously live as if there is no tomorrow and live as if there will be a thousand tomorrows. It never hurts to do a little deathbed check. We’re all headed there sooner or later…
The way we talk about influence is backwards
“You’ve got to realize that influence is not influence. It’s simply someone’s idea going through my new mind.”
—Jean-Michel Basquiat
I have always liked this quote because it insists that much of what we call “influence” is active, not passive. The way we talk about artistic influence is backwards. When we say, “Basquiat was influenced by Van Gogh,” that isn’t really correct, because it implies that Van Gogh is doing something to Basquiat, when actually the opposite is true.
Here is an explanation in literary terms from K.K. Ruthven’s Critical Assumptions:
Our understanding of literary ‘influence’ is obstructed by the grammar of our language, which puts things back to front in obliging us to speak in passive terms of the one who is the active partner in the relationship: to say that Keats influenced Wilde is not only to credit Keats with an activity of which he was innocent, but also to misrepresent Wilde by suggesting he merely submitted to something he obviously went out of his way to acquire. In matters of influence, it is the receptor who takes the initiative, not the emitter. When we say that Keats had a strong influence on Wilde, what we really mean is that Wilde was an assiduous reader of Keats, an inquisitive reader in the service of an acquisitive writer.
And here’s art historian Michael Baxandall, in Patterns of Intention: On the Historical Explanation of Pictures, lamenting that “influence” is a kind of catch-all that leads to an impoverished way of talking about art:
‘Influence’ is a curse of art criticism primarily because of its wrong-headed grammatical prejudice about who is the agent and who the patient: it seems to reverse the active/passive relation relation which the historical actor experiences and the inferential beholder will wish to take into account. If one says that X influenced Y it does seem that one is saying that X did something to Y rather than that Y did something to X. But in the consideration of good pictures and painters the second is always the more lively reality…. If we think of Y rather than X as the agent, the vocabulary is much richer and more attractively diversified: draw on, resort to, avail oneself of, appropriate from, have recourse to, adapt, misunderstand, refer to, pick up, take on, engage with, react to, quote, differentiate oneself from, assimilate oneself to, assimilate, align oneself with, copy, address, paraphrase, absorb, make a variation on, revive, continue, remodel, ape, emulate, travesty, parody, extract from, distort, attend to, resist, simplify, reconstitute, elaborate on, develop, face up to, master, subvert, perpetuate, reduce, promote, respond to, transform tackle… — everyone will be able to think of others. Most of these relations just cannot be stated the other way round — in terms of X acting on Y rather than Y acting on X. To think in terms of influence blunts thought by impoverishing the means of differentiation.
Again, Van Gogh isn’t working on Basquiat, Basquiat is working on Van Gogh. This is a crucial distinction, and you won’t do any good thinking about artistic thievery without it.
PS. Basquiat above is quoted by art historian Robert Farris Thompson, author of Flash of the Spirit, in the documentary Jean-Michel Basquiat: Radiant Child. (The screenshots are from the doc, too.)
PPS. Special thanks to Edward Tufte for the Baxandall passage.
What we are vs. what we want to be
This afternoon my wife said, “February has 3 fewer days than January. Shouldn’t we attempt our New Year’s Resolutions now?” An excellent idea! Turn the 30-day challenge into the 28-day challenge:
There are exactly four weeks in this month. What can you do with them? (I’m going to go on a diet and try to write a book proposal… because misery loves company!)
PS. There’s still time to get the new calendar!
- ← Newer posts
- 1
- …
- 304
- 305
- 306
- 307
- 308
- …
- 623
- Older posts→